SOUR    GRAPES 


SOUR  GRAPES 

A  Book  of  Poems 


BOSTON 

THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 
1921 


Copyright,  1921,  by 
THE  FOUR  SEAS  COMPANY 


The     Four     Seas     Press 
Boston,    Mass.,   U.   S.   A. 


fs 


To 
ALFRED   KREYMBORG 


807391 


Certain  of  the  poems  in  this  book  have  appeared  in  the 
magazines :  Poetry,  a  Magazine  of  Verse,  The  Egoist, 
The  Little  Review,  The  Dial,  Others,  and  Contact. 


CONTENTS 

Page 

THE  LATE  SINGER        .         .         .        .         .  1 1 

MARCH          .' 12 

BERKET  AND  THE  STARS         .         ..        ./      .  17 

A  CELEBRATION     . 18 

APRIL            .         .         .         ...         .  21 

A  GOODNIGHT        .         .         .         .         .         .  22 

OVERTURE  TO  A  DANCE  OF  LOCOMOTIVES        .  24 

ROMANCE  MODERNE       ....         .  26 

THE    DESOLATE    FIELD           .         ...  30 

WILLOW  POEM       .         .         .         .         .         .  31 

APPROACH  OF  WINTER           .         ,.        .         .  32 

JANUARY .  33 

BLIZZARD       .         .         .         .         .  34 

To  WAKEN  AN  OLD  LADY     .         .         .         .  35 

WINTER  TREES       ......  36 

COMPLAINT            .         .         .         ...  37 

THE  COLD  NIGHT 38 

SPRING  STORM       .         .         .         .         .         .  39 

THE    DELICACIES            .         .         .         .         .  40 

THURSDAY  .           .         .         .         .         .         .  43 

THE  DARK  DAY    .         ...        .      '   .         .         .  44 

TIME,   THE  HANGMAN           .         .         .         .  45 

To  A  FRIEND         .                   .         .         .         .  46 

THE  GENTLE  MAN         .         .  •     .  .         .         .  47 


CONTENTS 

THE  SOUGHING  WIND    . 

SPRING          ...... 

PLAY 

LINES 

THE  POOR     .... 

COMPLETE  DESTRUCTION 

MEMORY  OF  APRIL 

EPITAPH        ...... 

DAISY 

PRIMROSE      ...... 

QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE       .... 

GREAT  MULLEN     ..... 

WAITING       ...... 

THE  HUNTER 

ARRIVAL        ...... 

To  A  FRIEND  CONCERNING  SEVERAL  LADIES 
YOUTH  AND  BEAUTY       .... 

THE  THINKER       ..... 

THE  DISPUTANTS  .... 

THE  TULIP  BED     ..... 

THE    BIRDS 

THE  NIGHTINGALES       .... 

SPOUTS          ...... 

BLUEFLAGS    ...... 

THE  WIDOW'S  LAMENT  IN  SPRINGTIME    . 

LIGHT  HEARTED  WILLIAM 

PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

THE  LONELY  STREET      .... 

THE  GREAT  FIGURE 


SOUR    GRAPES 


THE  LATE  SINGER 

Here  it  is  spring  again 

and  I  still  a  young  man ! 

1  am  late  at  my  singing. 

The  sparrow  with  the  black  rain  on  his  breast 

has  been  at  his  cadenzas  for  two  weeks  past : 

What  is  it  that  is  dragging  at  my  heart  ? 

The  grass  by  the  back  door 

is  stiff  with  sap. 

The  old  maples  are  opening 

their  branches  of  brown  and  yellow  moth-flowers. 

A  moon  hangs  in  the  blue 

in  the  early  afternoons  over  the  marshes. 

I  am  late  at  my  singing. 


EH] 


MARCH 

I 

Winter  is  long  in  this  climate 
and  spring — a  matter  of  a  few  days 
only, — a  flower  or  two  picked 
from  mud  or  from  among  wet  leaves 
or  at  best  against  treacherous 
bitterness  of  wind,  and  sky  shining 
teasingly,  then  closing  in  black 
and  sudden,  with  fierce  jaws. 


II 

March, 

you  remind  me  of 
the  pyramids,  our  pyramids — 
stript  of  the  polished  stone 
that  used  to  guard  them! 

March, 

you  are  like  Fra  Angelico 
at  Fiesole,  painting  on  plaster! 

March, 

you  are  like  a  band  of 
young  poets  that  have  not  learned 
the  blessedness  of  warmth 
(or  have  forgotten  it). 

At  any  rate — 
I  am  moved  to  write  poetry 
for  the  warmth  there  is  in  it 
and  for  the  loneliness — 
a  poem  that  shall  have  you 
in  it  March. 

[12] 


Ill 

See! 

Ashur-ban-i-pal, 
the  archer  king,  on  horse-back, 
in  blue  and  yellow  enamel! 
with  drawn  bow — facing  lions 
standing  on  their  hind  legs, 
fangs  bared !  his  shafts 
bristling  in  their  necks ! 

Sacred  bulls — dragons 
in  embossed  brickwork 
marching — in  four  tiers — 
along  the  sacred  way  to 
Nebuchadnezzar's  throne  hall ! 
They  shine  in  the  sun, 
they  that  have  been  marching — 
marching  under  the  dust  of 
ten  thousand  dirt  years. 

Now — 

they  are  coming  into  bloom  again! 

See  them ! 

marching  still,  bared  by 

the  storms  from  my  calendar 

— winds  that  blow  back  the  sand ! 

winds  that  enfilade  dirt ! 

winds  that  by  strange  craft 

have  whipt  up  a  black  army 

that  by  pick  and  shovel 

bare  a  procession  to 

the  god,  Marduk! 

Natives  cursing  and  digging 
for  pay  unearth  dragons  with 
[13] 


upright  tails  and  sacred  bulls 
alternately — 

in  four  tiers — 

lining  the  way  to  an  old  altar ! 
Natives  digging  at  old  walls — 
digging  me  warmth — digging  me 

sweet  loneliness — 
high  enamelled  walls. 


IV 

My  second  spring — 
passed  in  a  monastery 
with  plaster  walls — in  Fiesole 
on  the  hill  above  Florence. 

My  second  spring — painted 
a  virgin — in  a  blue  aureole 
sitting  on  a  three-legged  stool, 
arms  crossed — 
she  is  intently  serious, 

and  still 

watching  an  angel 
with  coloured  wings 
half  kneeling  before  her — 
and  smiling — the  angel's  eyes 
holding  the  eyes  of  Mary 
as  a  snake's  holds  a  bird's. 
On  the  ground  there  are  flowers, 
trees  are  in  leaf. 


V 

But !  now  for  the  battle ! 

Now  for  murder — now  for  the  real  thing! 

My  third  springtime  is  approaching! 


Winds ! 

lean,  serious  as  a  virgin, 

seeking,  seeking  the  flowers  of  March. 

Seeking 

flowers  nowhere  to  be  found, 

they  twine  among  the  bare  branches 

in  insatiable  eagerness — 

they  whirl  up  the  snow 

seeking  under  it — 

they — the  winds — snakelike 

roar  among  yellow  reeds 

seeking  flowers — flowers. 

I  spring  among  them 

seeking  one  flower 

in  which  to  warm  myself ! 

I  deride  with  all  the  ridicule 

of  misery — 

my  own  starved  misery. 

Counter-cutting  winds 

strike  against  me 
refreshing  their  fury! 

Come,  good,  cold  fellows! 

Have  we  no  flowers? 
Defy  then  with  even  more 
desperation  than  ever — being 

lean  and  frozen! 

But  though  you  are  lean  and  frozen — 
think  of  the  blue  bulls  of  Babylon. 
[15] 


Fling  yourselves  upon 

their  empty  roses — 
cut  savagely! 

But— 

think  of  the  painted  monastery 
at  Fiesole. 


[16] 


BERKET  AND  THE  STARS 

A  day  on  the  boulevards  chosen  out  of  ten  years  of 
student  poverty!    One  best  day  out  of  ten  good  ones. 
Berket  in  high  spirits — "Ha,  oranges  !  Let's  have  one !" 
And  he  made  to  snatch  an  orange  from  the  vender's 
cart. 

Now  so  clever  was  the  deception,  so  nicely  timed 
to  the  full  sweep  of  certain  wave  summits, 
that  the  rumor  of  the  thing  has  come  down  through 
three  generations — which  is  relatively  forever! 


[17] 


A  CELEBRATION 

A  middle-northern  March,  now  as  always — 

gusts  from  the  south  broken  against  cold  winds — 

but  from  under,  as  if  a  slow  hand  lifted  a  tide, 

it  moves — not  into  April — into  a  second  March, 

the  old  skin  of  wind-clear  scales  dropping 

upon  the  mould:    this  is  the  shadow  projects  the  tree 

upward  causing  the  sun  to  shine  in  his  sphere. 

So  we  will  put  on  our  pink  felt  hat — new  last  year! 
— newer  this  by  virtue  of  brown  eyes  turning  back 
the  seasons — and  let  us  walk  to  the  orchid-house, 
see  the  flowers  will  take  the  prize  to-morrow 
at  the  Palace. 

Stop  here,  these  are  our  oleanders. 
When  they  are  in  bloom — 

You  would  waste  words 
It  is  clearer  to  me  than  if  the  pink 
were  on  the  branch.     It  would  be  a  searching  in 
a  coloured  cloud  to  reveal  that  which  now,  huskless, 
shows  the  very  reason  for  their  being. 

And  these  the  orange-trees,  in  blossom — no  need 
to  tell  with  this  weight  of  perfume  in  the  air. 
If  it  were  not  so  dark  in  this  shed  one  could  better 
see  the  white. 

It  is  that  very  perfume 

has  drawn  the  darkness  down  among  the  leaves. 
Do  I  speak  clearly  enough? 

It  is  this  darkness  reveals  that  which  darkness  alone 
loosens  and  sets  spinning  on  waxen  wings — 
not  the  touch  of  a  finger-tip,  not  the  motion 
of  a  sigh.    A  too  heavy  sweetness  proves 
its  own  caretaker. 

[18] 


And  here  are  the  orchids ! 

Never  having  seen 

such  gaiety  I  will  read  these  flowers  for  you : 
This  is  an  odd  January,  died — in  Villon's  time. 
Snow,  this  is  and  this  the  stain  of  a  violet 
grew  in  that  place  the  spring  that  foresaw  its  own 
doom. 

And  this,  a  certain  July  from  Iceland: 

a  young  woman  of  that  place 

breathed  it  toward  the  south.     It  took  root  there. 

The  colour  ran  true  but  the  plant  is  small. 


This  falling  spray  of  snowflakes  is 

a  handful  of  dead  Februarys 

prayed  into  flower  by  Rafael  Arevalo  Martinez 

of  Guatemala. 

Here's  that  old  friend  who 

went  by  my  side  so  many  years :  this  full,  fragile 
head  of  veined  lavender.    Oh  that  April 
that  we  first  went  with  our  stiff  lusts 
leaving  the  city  behind,  out  to  the  green  hill — 
May,  they  said  she  was.    A  hand  for  all  of  us : 
this  branch  of  blue  butterflies  tied  to  this  stem. 


June  is  a  yellow  cup  I'll  not  name;  August 
the  over-heavy  one.    And  here  are — 
russet  and  shiny,  all  but  March.    And  March? 
Ah,  March- 
Flowers  are  a  tiresome  pastime. 
One  has  a  wish  to  shake  them  from  their  pots 
root  and  stem,  for  the  sun  to  gnaw. 
[19] 


A  CELEBRATION 

A  middle-northern  March,  now  as  always— 

gusts  from  the  south  broken  against  cold  winds — 

but  from  under,  as  if  a  slow  hand  lifted  a  tide, 

it  moves — not  into  April — into  a  second  March, 

the  old  skin  of  wind-clear  scales  dropping 

upon  the  mould:    this  is  the  shadow  projects  the  tree 

upward  causing  the  sun  to  shine  in  his  sphere. 

So  we  will  put  on  our  pink  felt  hat — new  last  year ! 
— newer  this  by  virtue  of  brown  eyes  turning  back 
the  seasons — and  let  us  walk  to  the  orchid-house, 
see  the  flowers  will  take  the  prize  to-morrow 
at  the  Palace. 

Stop  here,  these  are  our  oleanders. 
When  they  are  in  bloom — 

You  would  waste  words 
It  is  clearer  to  me  than  if  the  pink 
were  on  the  branch.     It  would  be  a  searching  in 
a  coloured  cloud  to  reveal  that  which  now,  huskless, 
shows  the  very  reason  for  their  being. 

And  these  the  orange-trees,  in  blossom — no  need 
to  tell  with  this  weight  of  perfume  in  the  air. 
If  it  were  not  so  dark  in  this  shed  one  could  better 
see  the  white. 

It  is  that  very  perfume 

has  drawn  the  darkness  down  among  the  leaves. 
Do  I  speak  clearly  enough? 

It  is  this  darkness  reveals  that  which  darkness  alone 
loosens  and  sets  spinning  on  waxen  wings — 
not  the  touch  of  a  finger-tip,  not  the  motion 
of  a  sigh.    A  too  heavy  sweetness  proves 
its  own  caretaker. 

[18] 


And  here  are  the  orchids ! 

Never  having  seen 

such  gaiety  I  will  read  these  flowers  for  you : 
This  is  an  odd  January,  died — in  Villon's  time. 
Snow,  this  is  and  this  the  stain  of  a  violet 
grew  in  that  place  the  spring  that  foresaw  its  own 
doom. 

And  this,  a  certain  July  from  Iceland: 

a  young  woman  of  that  place 

breathed  it  toward  the  south.     It  took  root  there. 

The  colour  ran  true  but  the  plant  is  small. 


This  falling  spray  of  snowflakes  is 

a  handful  of  dead  Februarys 

prayed  into  flower  by  Rafael  Arevalo  Martinez 

of  Guatemala. 

Here's  that  old  friend  who 

went  by  my  side  so  many  years :  this  full,  fragile 
head  of  veined  lavender.    Oh  that  April 
that  we  first  went  with  our  stiff  lusts 
leaving  the  city  behind,  out  to  the  green  hill — 
May,  they  said  she  was.    A  hand  for  all  of  us : 
this  branch  of  blue  butterflies  tied  to  this  stem. 


June  is  a  yellow  cup  I'll  not  name;  August 
the  over-heavy  one.    And  here  are — 
russet  and  shiny,  all  but  March.    And  March? 
Ah,  March — 

Flowers  are  a  tiresome  pastime. 
One  has  a  wish  to  shake  them  from  their  pots 
root  and  stem,  for  the  sun  to  gnaw. 
[19] 


Walk  out  again  into  the  cold  and  saunter  home 
to  the  fire.     This  day  has  blossomed  long  enough. 
I  have  wiped  out  the  red  night  and  lit  a  blaze 
instead  which  will  at  least  warm  our  hands 
and  stir  up  the  talk. 

I  think  we  have  kept  fair  time. 
Time  is  a  green  orchid. 


[20] 


APRIL 

If  you  had  come  away  with  me 

into  another  state 

we  had  been  quiet  together. 

But  there  the  sun  coming  up 

out  of  the  nothing  beyond  the  lake  was 

too  low  in  the  sky, 

there  was  too  great  a  pushing 

against  him, 

too  much  of  sumac  buds,  pink 

in  the  head 

with  the  clear  gum  upon  them, 

too  many  opening  hearts  of 

lilac  leaves, 

too  many,  too  many  swollen 

limp  poplar  tassels  on  the 

bare  branches ! 

It  was  too  strong  in  the  air. 

I  had  no  rest  agaist  that 

springtime ! 

The  pounding  of  the  hoofs  on  the 

raw  sods 

stayed  with  me  half  through  the  night. 

I  awoke  smiling  but  tired. 


21] 


A  GOODNIGHT 

Go  to  sleep — though  of  course  you  will  not — 
to  tideless  waves  thundering  slantwise  against 
strong  embankments,  rattle  and  swish  of  spray 
dashed  thirty  feet  high,  caught  by  the  lake  wind, 
scattered  and  strewn  broadcast  in  over  the  steady 
car  rails !     Sleep,  sleep !     Gulls'  cries  in  a  wind-gust 
broken  by  the  wind ;  calculating  wings  set  above 
the  field  of  waves  breaking. 
Go  to  sleep  to  the  lunge    between  foam-crests, 
refuse   churned   in   the   recoil.     Food!     Food! 
Offal !     Offal !  that  holds  them  in  the  air,  wave-white 
for  the  one  purpose,  feather  upon  feather,  the  wild 
chill  in  their  eyes,  the  hoarseness  in  their  voices — 
sleep,  sleep  .    .    . 

Gentlefooted  crowds  are  treading  out  your  lullaby. 
Their  arms  nudge,  they  brush  shoulders, 
hitch  this  way  then  that,  mass  and  surge  at  the  cross- 
ings— 

lullaby,  lullaby !     The  wild- fowl  police  whistles, 
the  enraged  roar  of  the  trafic,  machine  shrieks: 
it  is  all  to  put  you  to  sleep, 
to  soften  your  limbs  in  relaxed  postures, 
and  that  your  head  slip  sidewise,  and  your  hair  loosen 
and  fall  over  your  eyes  and  over  your  mouth, 
brushing  your  lips  wistfully  that  you  may  dream, 
sleep  and  dream — 


A  black  fungus  springs  out  about  lonely  church  doors — 
sleep,  sleep.     The  Night,  coming  down  upon 
the  wet  boulevard,  would  start  you  awake  with  his 
message,  to  have  in  at  your  window.     Pay  no 
heed  to  him.     He  storms  at  your  sill  with 
cooings,   with  gesticulations,   curses! 
[22] 


You  will  not  let  him  in.     He  would  keep  you  from 

sleeping. 

He  would  have  you  sit  under  your  desk  lamp 
brooding,  pondering;  he  would  have  you 
slide  out  the  drawer,  take  up  the  ornamented  dagger 
and  handle  it.     It  is  late,  it  is  nineteen-nineteen — 
go  to  sleep,  his  cries  are  a  lullaby; 
his  jabbering  is  a  sleep- well-my-baby ;  he  is 
a  crackbrained  messenger. 

The  maid  waking  you  in  the  morning 

when  you  are  up  and  dressing, 

the  rustle  of  your  clothes  as  you  raise  them — 

it  is  the  same  tune. 

At  table  the  cold,  greenish,  split  grapefruit,  its  juice 

on  the  tongue,  the  clink  of  the  spoon  in 

your  coffee,  the  toast  odors  say  it  over  and  over. 

The  open  street-door  lets  in  the  breath  of 

the  morning  wind  from  over  the  lake. 

The   bus    coming   to    a   halt   grinds    from   its    sullen 

brakes — 

lullaby,  lullaby.     The  crackle  of  a  newspaper, 
the  movement  of  the  troubled  coat  beside  you — 
sleep,  sleep,  sleep,  sleep  .    .    . 
It  is  the  sting  of  snow,  the  burning  liquor  of 
the  moonlight,  the  rush  of  rain  in  the  gutters  packed 
with  dead  leaves :  go  to  sleep,  go  to  sleep. 
And  the  night  passes — and  never  passes — 


[23] 


OVERTURE  TO  A  DANCE  OF  LOCOMOTIVES 


Men  with  picked  voices  chant  the  names 
of  cities  in  a  huge  gallery:  promises 
that  pull  through  descending  stairways 
to  a  deep  rumbling. 

The  rubbing  feet 

of  those  coming  to  be  carried  quicken  a 
grey  pavement  into  soft  light  that  rocks 
to  and  fro,  under  the  domed  ceiling, 
across  and  across  from  pale 
earthcoloured  walls  of  bare  limestone. 

Covertly  the  hands  of  a  great  clock 
go  round  and  round !    Were  they  to 
move  quickly  and  at  once  the  whole 
secret  would  be  out  and  the  shuffling 
of  all  ants  be  done  forever. 

A  leaning  pyramid  of  sunlight,  narrowing 
out  at  a  high  window,  moves  by  the  clock 
disaccordant  hands  straining  out  from 
a  center:  inevitable  postures  infinitely 
repeated — 


II 

Two  —  twofour  —  twoeight ! 

Porters  in  red  hats  run  on  narrow  platforms. 

This  way  ma'm ! 

—important  not  to  take 
the  wrong  train! 

Lights  from  the  concrete 
ceiling   hang   crooked   but — 

[24] 


Poised  horizontal 

on  glittering  parallels  the  dingy  cylinders 
packed  with  a  warm  glow — inviting  entry — 
pull  against  the  hour.     But  brakes  can 
hold  a  fixed  posture  till — 

The  whistle ! 

Not  twoeight.    Not  two  four.    Two ! 

Gliding  windows.    Colored  cooks  sweating 
in  a  small  kitchen.     Taillights — > 

In  time :     twof our ! 
In  time :     twoeight ! 

— rivers  are  tunneled:  trestles 
cross  oozy  swampland:  wheels  repeating 
the  same  gesture  remain  relatively 
stationary:  rails  forever  parallel 
return    on    themselves    infinitely. 

The   dance   is 


[25] 


ROMANCE  MODERNE 

Tracks  of  rain  and  light  linger  in 

the  spongy  greens  of  a  nature  whose 

nickering  mountain — bulging  nearer, 

ebbing  back  into  the  sun 

hollowing  itself  away  to  hold  a  lake, — 

or  brown  stream  rising  and  falling 

at  the  roadside,  turning  about, 

churning  itself  white,  drawing 

green  in  over  it, — plunging  glassy  funnels 

fall— 

And — the  other  world — 
the  windshield  a  blunt  barrier: 
Talk  to  me.     Sh !  they  would  hear  us. 
— the  backs  of  their  heads  facing  us — 
The  stream  continues  its  motion  of 
a  hound  running  over  rough  ground. 


Trees  vanish — reappear — vanish:' 
detached  dance  of  gnomes — as  a  talk 
dodging  remarks,  glows  and  fades. 
— The  unseen  power  of  words — 
And  now  that  a  few  of  the  moves 
are  clear  the  first  desire  is 
to  fling  oneself  out  at  the  side  into 
the  other  dance,  to  other  music. 
Peer  Gynt.     Rip  Van  Winkle.     Diana. 


If  I  were  young  I  would  try  a  new  alignment- 
alight  nimbly  from  the  car,  Good-bye ! — 
Childhood  companions  linked  two  and  two 
criss-cross :  four,  three,  two,  one. 
Back  into  self,  tentacles  withdrawn. 
Feel  about  in  warm  self-flesh. 
Since  childhood,  since  childhood! 
[26] 


Childhood  is  a  toad  in  the  garden,  a 

happy  toad.    All  toads  are  happy 

and  belong  in  gardens.    A  toad  to  Diana ! 

Lean  forward.     Punch  the  steersman 

behind  the  ear.    Twirl  the  wheel ! 

Over  the  edge !     Screams !     Crash ! 

The  end.     I  sit  above  my  head — 

a  little  removed — or 

a  thin  wash  of  rain  on  the  roadway 

— I  am  never  afraid  when  he  is  driving, — 

interposes  new  direction, 

rides  us  sideswise,  unforseen 

into  the  ditch!        All  threads  cut! 

Death!     Black.     The  end.    The  very  end— 

I  would  sit  separate  weighing  a 

small  red  handful:  the  dirt  of  these  parts, 

sliding  mists  sheeting  the  alders 

against  the  touch  of  fingers  creeping 

to  mine.    All  stuff  of  the  blind  emotions. 

But —  stirred,  the  eye  seizes 

for  the  first  time — The  eye  awake ! — 

anything,  a  dirt  bank  with  green  stars 

of  scrawny  weed  flattened  upon  it  under 

a  weight  of  air — For  the  first  time ! — 

or  a  yawning  depth:  Big! 

Swim  around  in  it,  through  it — 

all  directions  and  find 

vitreous  seawater  stuff — 

God  how  I  love  you ! — or,  as  I  say, 

a  plung  into  the  ditch.    The  end.    I  sit 

examining  my  red  handful.     Balancing 

— this — in  and  out — agh. 

Love  you?    It's 
a  fire  in  the  blood,  willy-nilly! 
[27] 


It's  the  sun  coming  tip  in  the  morning. 
Ha,  but  it's  the  grey  moon  too,  already  up 
in  the  morning.     You  are  slow. 
Men  are  not  friends  where  it  concerns 
a  woman?    Fighters.     Playfellows. 
White  round  thighs!     Youth!     Sighs—! 
It's  the  fillip  of  novelty.     It's— 

Mountains.     Elephants  humping  along 

against  the  sky — indifferent  to 

light  withdrawing  its  tattered  shreds, 

worn  out  with  embraces.     It's 

the  fillip  of  novelty.     It's  a  fire  in  the  blood. 

Oh  get  a  flannel  shirt,  white  flannel 

or  pongee.     You'd  look  so  well ! 

I  married  you  because  I  liked  your  nose. 

I  wanted  you !    I  wanted  you 

in  spite  of  all  they'd  say — 

Rain  and  light,  mountain  and  rain, 

rain  and  river.     Will  you  love  me  always? 

- — A  car  overturned  and  two  crushed  bodies 

under  it. — Always  !     Always  ! 

And  the  white  moon  already  up. 

White.     Clean.    All  the  colors. 

A  good  head,  backed  by  the  eye — awake ! 

backed  by  the  emotions — blind — 

River  and  mountain,  light  and  rain — or 

rain,  rock,  light,  trees — divided: 

rain-light  counter  rocks-trees  or 

trees  counter  rain-light-rocks  or — 

Myriads  of  counter  processions 
crossing  and  recrossing,  regaining 
the  advantage,  buying  here,  selling  there 
— You  are  sold  cheap  everywhere  in  town ! — 
[28] 


lingering,  touching  fingers,  withdrawing 
gathering  forces  into  blares,  hummocks, 
peaks  and  rivers — river  meeting  rock 
— I  wish  that  you  were  lying  there  dead 
and  I  sitting  here  beside  you. — 
It's  the  grey  moon — over  and  over. 
It's  the  clay  of  these  parts. 


[29] 


THE  DESOLATE  FIELD 

Vast  and  grey,  the  sky 

is  a  simulacrum 

to  all  but  him  whose  days 

are  vast  and  grey,  and — 

In  the  tall,  dried  grasses 

a  goat  stirs 

with  nozzle  searching  the  ground. 

— my  head  is  in  the  air 

but  who  am  I   .    .    ? 

And  amazed  my  heart  leaps 

at  the  thought  of  love 

vast  and  grey 

yearning  silently  over  me. 


[30] 


WILLOW  POEM 

It  is  a  willow  when  summer  is  over, 
a  willow  by  the  river 
from  which  no  leaf  has  fallen  nor 
bitten  by  the  sun 
turned  orange  or  crimson. 
The  leaves  cling  and  grow  paler, 
swing  and  grow  paler 
over  the  swirling  waters  of  the  river 
as  if  loath  to  let  go, 
they  are  so  cool,  so  drunk  with 
the  swirl  of  the  wind  and  of  the  river- 
oblivious  to  winter, 
the  last  to  let  go  and  fall 
into  the  water  and  on  the  ground. 


APPROACH  OF  WINTER 

The  half  stripped  trees 

struck  by  a  wind  together, 

bending  all, 

the  leaves  flutter  drily 

and  refuse  to  let  go 

or  driven  like  hail 

stream  bitterly  out  to  one  side 

and  fall 

where  the  salvias,  hard  carmine,- 

like  no  leaf  that  ever  was — 

edge  the  bare  garden. 


[32] 


JANUARY 

Again  I  reply  to  the  triple  winds 
running  chromatic  fifths  of  derision 
outside  my  window : 

Play  louder. 

You  will  not  succeed.    I  am 
bound  more  to  my  sentences 
the  more  you  batter  at  me 
to  follow  you. 

And  the  wind, 
as  before,,  fingers  perfectly 
its  derisive  music. 


[33] 


BLIZZARD 

Snow: 

years  of  anger  following 

hours  that  float  idly  down — 

the  blizzard 

drifts  its  weight 

deeper  and  deeper  for  three  days 

or  sixty  years,  eh?     Then 

the  sun !  a  clutter  of 

yellow  and  blue  flakes — 

Hairy  looking  trees  stand  out 

in  long  alleys 

over  a  wild  solitude. 

The  man  turns  and  there — 

his  sblitary  track  stretched  out 

upon  the  world. 


[34] 


TO  WAKEN  AN  OLD  LADY 

Old  age  is 

a  flight  of  small 

cheeping  birds 

skimming 

bare  trees 

above  a  snow  glaze. 

Gaining  and  failing 

they  are  buffetted 

by  a  dark  wind — 

But  what? 

On  harsh  weedstalks 

the  flock  has  rested, 

the  snow 

is  covered  with  broken 

seedhusks 

and  the  wind  tempered 

by  a  shrill 

piping  of  plenty. 


[35] 


WINTER  TREES 

All  the  complicated  details 

of  the  attiring  and 

the  disattiring  are  completed! 

A  liquid  moon 

moves  gently  among 

the  long  branches. 

Thus  having  prepared  their  buds 

against  a  sure  winter 

the  wise  trees 

stand  sleeping  in  the  cold. 


[36] 


COMPLAINT 

They  call  me  and  I  go 

It  is  a  frozen  road 

past  midnight,  a  dust 

of  snow  caught 

in  the  rigid  wheeltracks. 

The  door  opens. 

I  smile,  enter  and 

shake  off  the  cold. 

Here  is  a  great  woman 

on  her  side  in  the  bed. 

She  is  sick, 

perhaps  vomiting, 

perhaps  laboring 

to  give  birth  to 

a  tenth  child.     Joy!     Joy! 

Night  is  a  room 

darkened  for  lovers, 

through  the  jalousies  the  sun 

has  sent  one  gold  needle ! 

I  pick  the  hair  from  her  eyes 

and  watch  her  misery 

with  compassion. 


[37] 


THE  COLD  NIGHT 

It  is  cold.     The  white  moon 

is  up  among  her  scattered  stars — 

like  the  bare  thighs  of 

the  Police  Seargent's  wife — among 

her  five  children  .    .    . 

No  answer.     Pale  shadows  lie  upon 

the  frosted  grass.     One  answer: 

It  is  midnight,  it  is  still 

and  it  is  cold  .   .   .    ! 

White  thighs  of  the  sky !  a 

new  answer  out  of  the  depths  of 

my  male  belly:     In  April   .    .    . 

In  April  I  shall  see  again — In  April ! 

the  round  and  perfect  thighs 

of  the  Police  Sergent's  wife 

perfect  still  after  many  babies. 

Oya! 


[38] 


SPRING  STORM 

The  sky  has  given  over 

its  bitterness. 

Out  of  the  dark  change 

all  day  long 

rain  falls  and  falls 

as  if  it  would  never  end. 

Still  the  snow  keeps 

its  hold  on  the  ground. 

But  water,  water 

from  a  thousand  runnels! 

It  collects  swiftly, 

dappled  with  black 

cuts  a  way  for  itself 

through  green  ice  in  the  gutters. 

Drop  after  drop  it  falls 

from  the  withered  grass-stems 

of  the  overhanging  embankment. 


[39] 


THE  DELICACIES 


The  hostess,  in  pink  satin  and  blond  hair — dressed 
high — shone  beautifully  in  her  white  slippers  against 
the  great  silent  bald  head  of  her  little-eyed  husband ! 

Raising  a  glass  of  yellow  Rhine  wine  in  the  narrow 
space  just  beyond  the  light-varnished  woodwork  and 
the  decorative  column  between  dining-room  and  hall, 
she  smiled  the  smile  of  water  tumbling  from  one  ledge 
to  another. 

We  began  with  a  herring  salad:  delicately  flavoured 
saltiness  in  scallops  of  lettuce-leaves. 


The  little  owl-eyed  and  thick-set  lady  with  masses 
of  grey  hair  has  smooth  pink  cheeks  without  a  wrinkle. 
She  cannot  be  the  daughter  of  the  little  red-faced 
fellow  dancing  about  inviting  lion-headed  Wolff  the 
druggist  to  play  the  piano !  But  she  is.  Wolff  is  a 
terrific  smoker:  if  the  telephone  goes  off  at  night — so 
his  curled-haired  wife  whispers — he  rises  from  bed  but 
cannot  answer  till  he  has  lighted  a  cigarette. 


Sherry  wine  in  little  conical  glasses,  dull  brownish 
yellow,  and  tomatoes  stuffed  with  finely  cut  chicken 
and  mayonnaise! 


The  tall  Irishman  in  a  Prince  Albert  and  the  usual 
striped  trousers  is  going  to  sing  for  us.  (The  piano 
is  in  a  little  alcove  with  dark  curtains.)  The  hostess's 
sister — ten  years  younger  than  she — in  black  net  and 
velvet,  has  hair  like  some  filmy  haystack,  cloudy  about 
the  eyes.  She  will  play  for  her  husband. 
[40] 


My  wife  is  young,  yes  she  is  young  and  pretty  when 
she  cares  to  be — when  she  is  interested  in  a  discussion : 
it  is  the  little  dancing  mayor's  wife  telling  her  of  the 
Day  nursery  in  East  Rutherford,  'cross  the  track, 
divided  from  us  by  the  railroad — and  disputes  as  to 
precedence.  It  is  in  this  town  the  saloon  flourishes, 
the  saloon  of  my  friend  on  the  right  whose  wife  has 
twice  offended  with  chance  words.  Her  English  is 
atrocious !  It  is  in  this  town  that  the  saloon  is  situated, 
close  to  the  railroad  track,  close  as  may  be,  this  side 
being  dry,  dry,  dry:  two  people  listening  on  opposite 
sides  of  a  wall! — The  Day  Nursery  had  sixty-five 
babies  the  week  before  last,  so  my  wife's  eyes  shine 
and  her  cheeks  are  pink  and  I  cannot  see  a  blemish. 


Ice-cream  in  the  shape  of  flowers  and  domestic 
objects:  a  pipe  for  me  since  I  do  not  smoke,  a  doll 
for  you. 

The  figure  of  some  great  bulk  of  a  woman  dis- 
appearing into  the  kitchen  with  a  quick  look  over  the 
shoulder.  My  friend  on  the  left  who  has  spent  the 
whole  day  in  a  car  the  like  of  which  some  old  fellow 
would  give  to  an  actress :  flower-holders,  mirrors, 
curtains,  plush  seats — my  friend  on  the  left  who  is 
chairman  of  the  Streets  committee  of  the  town  council 
— and  who  has  spent  the  whole  day  studying  auto- 
mobile fire-engines  in  neighbouring  towns  in  view  of 
purchase, — my  friend,  at  the  Elks  last  week  at  the 
breaking-up  hymn,  signalled  for  them  to  let  Bill — a 
familiar  friend  of  the  saloon-keeper — sing  out  all  alone 
to  the  organ — and  he  did  sing ! 

Salz-rolls,  exquisite!  and  Rhine  wine  ad  libitum. 
A  masterly  caviare  sandwich. 


The  children  flitting  about  above  stairs.  The 
councilman  has  just  bought  a  National  eight — some 
car! 

For  heaven's  sake  I  mustn't  forget  the  halves  of 
green  peppers  stuffed  with  cream  cheese  and  whole 
walnuts ! 


[42] 


THURSDAY 

I  have  had  my  dream — like  others — 

and  it  has  come  to  nothing,  so  that 

I  remain  now  carelessly 

with  feet  planted  on  the  ground 

and  look  up  at  the  sky — 

feeling  my  clothes  about  me, 

the  weight  of  my  body  in  my  shoes, 

the  rim  of  my  hat,  air  passing  in  and  out 

at  my  nose — and  decide  to  dream  no  more. 


[43] 


THE  DARK  DAY 

A  three-day-long  rain  from  the  east — 

an  interminable  talking,  talking 

of  no  consequence — patter,  patter,  patter. 

Hand  in  hand  little  winds 

blow  the  thin  streams  aslant. 

Warm.     Distance  cut  off.     Seclusion. 

A  few  passers-by,  drawn  in  upon  themselves, 

hurry  from  one  place  to  another. 

Winds  of  the  white  poppy!  there  is  no  escape !- 

An  interminable  talking,  talking, 

talking  ...  it  has  happened  before. 

Backward,  backward,  backward. 


[44] 


TIME  THE  HANGMAN 

Poor  old  Abner,  old  white-haired  nigger! 

[  remember  when  you  were  so  strong 

fou  hung  yourself  by  a  rope  round  the  neck 

n  Doc  Hollister's  barn  to  prove  you  could  beat 

:he  faker  in  the  circus — and  it  didn't  kill  you. 

Now  your  face  is  in  your  hands,  and  your  elbows 

ire  on  your  knees,  and  you  are  silent  and  broken. 


[45] 


TO  A  FRIEND 

Well,  Lizzie  Anderson !  seventeen  men — and 
the  baby  hard  to  find  a  father  for ! 

What  will  the  good  Father  in  Heaven  say 

to  the  local  judge  if  he  do  not  solve  this  problem? 

A  little  two  pointed  smile  and — pouff ! — 

the  law  is  changed  into  a  mouthful  of  phrases. 


[46] 


'THE  GENTLE  MAN 

I  feel  the  caress  of  my  own  fingers 
on  my  own  neck  as  I  place  my  collar 
and  think  pityingly 
of  the  kind  women  I  have  known. 


[47] 


THE  SOUGHING  WIND 

Some  leaves  hang  late,  some  fall 

before  the  first  frost — so  goes 

the  tale  of  winter  branches  and  old  bones. 


[48] 


SPRING 

O  my  grey  hairs ! 

You  are  truly  white  as  plum  blossoms. 


t49] 


PLAY 

Subtle,  clever  brain,  wiser  than  I  am, 
by  what  devious  means  do  you  contrive 
to  remain  idle  ?  Teach  me,  O  master. 


[50] 


LINES 

Leaves  are  greygreen, 

the  glass  broken,  bright  green. 


THE  POOR 

By  constantly  tormenting  them 

with  reminders  of  the  lice  in 

their  children's  hair,  the 

School  Physician  first 

brought  their  hatred  down  on  him, 

But  by  this  familiarity 

they  grew  used  to  him,  and  so, 

at  last, 

took  him  for  their  friend  and  adviser. 


[52] 


COMPLETE  DESTRUCTION 

It  was  an  icy  day. 
We  buried  the  cat, 
then  took  her  box 
and  set  fire  to  it 
in  the  back  yard. 
Those  fleas  that  escaped 
earth  and  fire 
died  by  the  cold. 


[53] 


MEMORY  OF  APRIL 

You  say  love  is  this,  love  is  that : 
Poplar  tassels,  willow  tendrils 
the  wind  and  the  rain  comb, 
tinkle  and  drip,  tinkle  and  drip — 
branches  drifting  apart.    Hagh  ! 
Love  has  not  even  visited  this  country. 


[54] 


EPITAPH 

An  old  willow  with  hollow  branches 
slowly  swayed  his  few  high  bright  tendrils 
and  sang: 

Love  is  a  young  green  willow 
shimmering  at  the  bare  wood's  edge. 


[55] 


DAISY 

The  dayseye  hugging  the  earth 

in  August,  ha !     Spring  is 

gone  down  in  purple, 

weeds  stand  high  in  the  corn, 

the  rainbeaten  furrow 

is  clotted  with  sorrel 

and  crabgrass,  the 

branch  is  black  under 

the  heavy  mass  of  the  leaves — 

The  sun  is  upon  a 

slender  green  stem 

ribbed  lengthwise. 

He  lies  on  his  back — 

it  is  a  woman  also — 

he  regards  his  former 

majesty  and 

round  the  yellow  center, 

split  and  creviced  and  done  into 

minute  flowerheads,  he  sends  out 

his  twenty  rays — a  little 

and  the  wind  is  among  them 

to  grow  cool  there ! 

One  turns  the  thing  over 

in  his  hand  and  looks 

at  it  from  the  rear:  brownedged, 

green  and  pointed  scales 

armor  his  yellow. 

But  turn  and  turn, 

the  crisp  petals  remain 

brief,  translucent,  greenfastened, 

barely  touching  at  the  edges : 

blades  of  limpid  seashell. 


[56] 


PRIMROSE 

Yellow,  yellow,  yellow,  yellow ! 

It  is  not  a  color. 

It  is  summer! 

It  is  the  wind  on  a  willow, 

the  lap  of  waves,  the  shadow 

under  a  bush,  a  bird,  a  bluebird, 

three  herons,  a  dead  hawk 

rotting  on  a  pole — 

Clear  yellow ! 

It  is  a  piece  of  blue  paper 

in  the  grass  or  a  threecluster  of 

green  walnuts  swaying,  children 

playing  croquet  or  one  boy 

fishing,  a  man 

swinging  his  pink  fists 

as  he  walks — 

It  is  ladysthumb,  forgetmenots 

in  the  ditch,  moss  under 

the  flange  of  the  carrail,  the 

wavy  lines  in  split  rock,  a 

great  oaktree — 

It  is  a  disinclination  to  be 

five  red  petals  or  a  rose,  it  is 

a  cluster  of  birdsbreast  flowers 

on  a  red  stem  six  feet  high, 

four  open  yellow  petals 

above  sepals  curled 

backward  into  reverse  spikes — 

Tufts  of  purple  grass  spot  the 

green  meadow  and  clouds  the  sky. 


[57] 


QUEEN-ANN'S-LACE 

Her  body  is  not  so  white  as 

anemony  petals  nor  so  smooth — nor 

so  remote  a  thing.     It  is  a  field 

of  the  wild  carrot  taking 

the  field  by  force ;  the  grass 

does  not  raise  above  it. 

Here  is  no  question  of  whiteness, 

white  as  can  be,  with  a  purple  mole 

at  the  center  of  each  flower. 

Each  flower  is  a  hand's  span 

of  her  whiteness.    Wherever 

his  hand  has  lain  there  is 

a  tiny  purple  blemish.     Each  part 

is  a  blossom  under  his  touch 

to  which  the  fibres  of  her  being 

stem  one  by  one,  each  to  its  end, 

until  the  whole  field  is  a 

white  desire,  empty,  a  single  stem, 

a  cluster,  flower  by  flower, 

a  pious  wish  to  whiteness  gone  over — 

or  nothing. 


[58] 


GREAT  MULLEN 

One  leaves  his  leaves  at  home 

being  a  mullen  and  sends  up  a  lighthouse 

to  peer  from:  I  will  have  my  way, 

yellow — A  mast  with  a  lantern,  ten 

fifty,  a  hundred,  smaller  and  smaller 

as  they  grow  more — Liar,  liar,  liar! 

You  come  from  her!    I  can  smell  djer-kiss 

on  your  clothes.    Ha,  ha!  you  come  to  me, 

you — I  am  a  point  of  dew  on  a  grass-stem. 

Why  are  you  sending  heat  down  on  me 

from  your  lantern? — You  are  cowdung,  a 

dead  stick  with  the  bark  off.    She  is 

squirting  on  us  both.     She  has  had  her 

hand  on  you  ! — Well? — She  has  defiled 

ME. — Your  leaves  are  dull,  thick 

and  hairy. — Every  hair  on  my  body  will 

hold  you  off  from  me.    You  are  a 

dungcake,  birdlime  on  a  fencerail. — 

I  love  you,  straight,  yellow 

finger  of  God  pointing  to — her ! 

Liar,  broken  weed,  duncake,  you  have — 

I  am  a  cricket  waving  his  antenae 

and  you  are  high,  grey  and  straight.     Ha! 


[59] 


WAITING 

When  I  am  alone  I  am  happy. 

The  air  is  cool.     The  sky  is 

flecked  and  splashed  and  wound 

with  color.    The  crimson  phalloi 

of  the  sassafrass  leaves 

hang  crowded  before  me 

in  shoals  on  the  heavy  branches. 

When  I  reach  my  doorstep 

I  am  greeted  by 

the  happy  shrieks  of  my  children 

and  my  heart  sinks. 

I  am  crushed. 

Are  not  my  children  as  dear  to  me 

as  falling  leaves  or 

must  one  become  stupid 

to  grow  older? 

It  seems  much  as  if  Sorrow 

had  tripped  up  my  heels. 

Let  us  see,  let  us  see ! 

What  did  I  plan  to  say  to  her 

when  it  should  happen  to  me 

as  it  has  happened  now  ? 


[60] 


THE  HUNTER 

In  the  flashes  and  black  shadows 

of  July 

the  days,  locked  in  each  other's  arms, 

seem  still 

so  that  squirrels  and  colored  birds 

go  about  at  ease  over 

the  branches  and  through  the  air. 

Where  will  a  shoulder  split  or 
a  forehead  open  and  victory  be? 

Nowhere. 

Both  sides  grow  older. 

And  you  may  be  sure 

not  one  leaf  will  lift  itself 

from  the  ground 

and  become  fast  to  a  twig  again. 


[61; 


ARRIVAL 

And  yet  one  arrives  somehow, 

finds  himself  loosening  the  hooks  of 

her  dress 

in  a  strange  bedroom — 

feels  the  autumn 

dropping  its  silk  and  linen  leaves 

about  her  ankles. 

The  tawdry  veined  body  emerges 

twisted  upon  itself 

like  a  winter  wind  . 


[62] 


TO  A  FRIEND 
CONCERNING  SEVERAL  LADIES 

You  know  there  is  not  much 

that  I  desire,  a  few  crysanthemums 

half  lying  on  the  grass,  yellow 

and  brown  and  white,  the 

talk  of  a  few  people,  the  trees, 

an  expanse  of  dried  leaves  perhaps 

with  ditches  among  them. 

But  there  comes 

between  me  and  these  things 

a  letter 

or  even  a  look — well  placed, 

you  understand, 

so  that  I  am  confused,  twisted 

four  ways  and — left  flat, 

unable  to  lift  the  food  to 

my  own  mouth: 

Here  is  what  they  say:  Come! 

and  come !  and  come !  And  if 

I  do  not  go  I  remain  stale  to 

myself  and  if  I  go — 

I  have  watched 

the  city  from  a  distance  at  night 
and  wondered  why  I  wrote  no  poem. 
Come !  yes, 

the  city  is  ablaze  for  you 
and  you  stand  and  look  at  it. 

And  they  are  right.     There  is 
no  good  in  the  world  except  out  of 
a  woman  and  certain  women  alone 
for  certain  things.     But  what  if 
I  arrive  like  a  turtle 
with  my  house  on  my  back  or 
a  fish  ogling  from  under  water? 
[63] 


It  will  not  do.    I  must  be 
steaming  with  love,  colored 
like  a  flamingo.     For  what? 
To  have  legs  and  a  silly  head 
and  to  smell,  pah !  like  a  flamingo 
that  soils  its  own  feathers  behind. 
Must  I  go  home  filled 
with  a  bad  poem? 
And  they  say: 

Who  can  answer  these  things 
till  he  has  tried?     Your  eyes 
are  half  closed,  you  are  a  child, 
oh,  a  sweet  one,  ready  to  play 
but  I  will  make  a  man  of  you  and 
with  love  on  his  shoulder — ! 

And  in  the  marshes 

the  crickets  run 

on  the  sunny  dike's  top  and 

make  burrows  there,  the  water 

reflects  the  reeds  and  the  reeds 

move  on  their  stalks  and  rattle  drily. 


[64] 


YOUTH  AND  BEAUTY 

I  bought  a  dishmop — 

having  no  daughter — 

for  they  had  twisted 

fine  ribbons   of   shining  copper 

about  white  twine 

and  made  a  towsled  head 

of  it,  fastened  it 

upon  a  turned  ash  stick 

slender  at  the  neck 

straight,  tall — 

when  tied  upright 

on  the  brass  wallbracket 

to  be  a  light  for  me — 

and  naked, 

as  a  girl  should  seem 

to  her  father. 


[65] 


THE  THINKER 

My  wife's  new  pink  slippers 

have  gay  pom-poms. 

There  is  not  a  spot  or  a  stain 

on  their  satin  toes  or  their  sides. 

All  night  they  lie  together 

under  her  bed's  edge. 

Shivering  I  catch  sight  of  them 

and  smile,  in  the  morning. 

Later  I  watch  them 

descending  the  stair, 

hurrying  through  the  doors 

and  round  the  table, 

moving  stiffly 

with  a  shake  of  their  gay  pom-poms  ! 

And  I  talk  to  them 

in  my  secret  mind 

out  of  pure  happiness. 


[66] 


THE  DISPUTANTS 

Upon  the  table  in  their  bowl 

in  violent  disarray 

of  yellow  sprays,  green  spikes 

of  leaves,  red  pointed  petals 

and  curled  heads  of  blue 

and  white  among  the  litter 

of  the  forks  and  crumbs  and  plates 

the  flowers  remain  composed. 

Cooly  their  colloquy  continues 

above  the  coffee  and  loud  talk 

grown  frail  as  vaudeville. 


[67] 


THE  TULIP  BED 

The  May  sun — whom 

all  things  imitate — 

that  glues  small  leaves  to 

the  wooden  trees 

shone  from  the  sky 

through  bluegauze  clouds 

upon  the  ground. 

Under  the  leafy  trees 

where  the  suburban  streets 

lay  crossed, 

with  houses  on  each  corner, 

tangled  shadows  had  begun 

to  join 

the  roadway  and  the  lawns. 

With  excellent  precision 

the  tulip  bed 

inside  the  iron  fence 

upreared  its  gaudy 

yellow,  white  and  red, 

rimmed  round  with  grass, 

reposedly. 


[68] 


THE  BIRDS 

The  world  begins  again ! 

Not  wholly  insufflated 

the  blackbirds  in  the  rain 

upon  the  dead  topbranches 

of  the  living  tree, 

stuck  fast  to  the  low  clouds, 

notate  the  dawn. 

Their  shrill  cries  sound 

announcing  appetite 

and  drop  among  the  bending  roses 

and  the  dripping  grass. 


[69] 


THE  NIGHTINGALES 

My  shoes  as  I  lean 
unlacing  them 
stand  out  upon 
flat  worsted  flowers 
under  my  feet. 
Nimbly  the  shadows 
of  my  fingers  play 
unlacing 
over  shoes  and  flowers. 


SPOUTS 

In  this  world  of 

as  fine  a  pair  of  breasts 

as  ever  I  saw 

the  fountain  in 

Madison  Square 

spouts  up  of  water 

a  white  tree 

that  dies  and  lives 

as  the  rocking  water 

in  the  basin 

turns  from  the  stonerim 

back  upon  the  jet 

and  rising  there 

reflectively  drops  down  again. 


[71] 


BLUEFLAGS 

I  stopped  the  car 

to  let  the  children  down 

where  the  streets  end 

in  the  sun 

at  the  marsh  edge 

and  the  reeds  begin 

and  there  are  small  houses 

facing  the  reeds 

and  the  blue  mist 

in  the  distance 

with  grapevine  trellises 

with  grape  clusters 

small  as  strawberries 

on  the  vines 

and  ditches 

running  springwater 

that  continue  the  gutters 

with  willows  over  them. 

The  reeds  begin 

like  water  at  a  shore 

their  pointed  petals  waving 

dark  green  and  light. 

But  blueflags  are  blossoming 

in  the  reeds 

which  the  children  pluck 

chattering  in  the  reeds 

high  over  their  heads 

which  they  part 

with  bare  arms  to  appear 

with  fists  of  flowers 

till  in  the  air 

there  conies  the  smell 

of  calamus 

from  wet,  gummy  stalks. 

[72] 


THE  WIDOW'S  LAMENT  IN  SPRINGTIME 

Sorrow  is  my  own  yard 

where  the  new  grass 

flames  as  it  has  flamed 

often  before  but  not 

with  the  cold  fire 

that  closes  round  me  this  year. 

Thirtyfive  years 

I  lived  with  my  husband. 

The  plumtree  is  white  today 

with  masses  of  flowers. 

Masses  of  flowers 

load  the  cherry  branches 

and  color  some  bushes 

yellow  and  some  red 

but  the  grief  in  my  heart 

is  stronger  than  they 

for  though  they  were  my  joy 

formerly,  today  I  notice  them 

and  turn  away  forgetting. 

Today  my  son  told  me 

that  in  the  meadows, 

at  the  edge  of  the  heavy  woods 

in  the  distance,  he  saw 

trees  of  white  flowers. 

I  feel  that  I  would  like 

to  go  there 

and  fall  into  those  flowers 

and  sink  into  the  marsh  near  them. 


[73] 


LIGHT  HEARTED  WILLIAM 

Light  hearted  William  twirled 
his  November  moustaches 
and,  half  dressed,  looked 
from  the  bedroom  window 
upon  the  spring  weather. 

Heigh-ya !  sighed  he  gaily 

leaning  out  to  see 

up  and  down  the  street 

where  a  heavy  sunlight 

lay  beyond  some  blue  shadows. 

Into  the  room  he  drew 

his  head  again  and  laughed 

to  himself  quietly 

twirling  his  green  moustaches. 


[74] 


PORTRAIT  OF  THE  AUTHOR 

The  birches  are  mad  with  green  points 

the  wood's  edge  is  burning  with  their  green, 

burning,  seething — No,  no,  no. 

The  birches  are  opening  their  leaves  one 

by  one.    Their  delicate  leaves  unfold  cold 

and  separate,  one  by  one.     Slender  tassels 

hang  swaying  from  the  delicate  branch  tips — 

Oh,  I  cannot  say  it.     There  is  no  word. 

Black  is  split  at  once  into  flowers.    In 

every  bog  and  ditch,  flares  of 

small  fire,  white  flowers! — Agh, 

the  birches  are  mad,  mad  with  their  green. 

The  world  is  gone,  torn  into  shreds 

with  this  blessing.     What  have  I  left  undone 

that  I  should  have  undertaken 

O  my  brother,  you  redfaced,  living  man 

ignorant,  stupid  whose  feet  are  upon 

this  same  dirt  that  I  touch — and  eat. 

We  are  alone  in  this  terror,  alone, 

face  to  face  on  this  road,  you  and  I, 

wrapped  by  this  flame! 

Let  the  polished  plows  stay  idle, 

their  gloss  already  on  the  black  soil. 

But  that  face  of  yours — ! 

Answer  me.     I  will  clutch  you.     I 

will  hug  you,  grip  you.     I  will  poke  my  face 

into  your  face  and  force  you  to  see  me. 

Take  me  in  your  arms,  tell  me  the  commonest 

thing  that  is  in  your  mind  to  say, 

say  anything.    I  will  understand  you — ! 

It  is  the  madness  of  the  birch  leaves  opening 

cold,  one  by  one. 

[75] 


My  rooms  will  receive  me.     But  my  rooms 

are  no  longer  sweet  spaces  where  comfort 

is  ready  to  wait  on  me  with  its  crumbs. 

A  darkness  has  brushed  them.     The  mass 

of  yellow  tulips  in  the  bowl  is  shrunken. 

Every  familiar  object  is  changed  and  dwarfed. 

I  am  shaken,  broken  against  a  might 

that  splits  comfort,  blows  apart 

my  careful  partitions,  crushes  my  house 

and  leaves  me — with  shrinking  heart 

and  startled,  empty  eyes — peering  out 

into  a  cold  world. 

In  the  spring  I  would  drink !     In  the  spring 

I  would  be  drunk  and  lie  forgetting  all  things. 

Your  face !    Give  me  your  face,  Yang  Kue  Fei ! 

your  hands,  your  lips  to  drink ! 

Give  me  your  wrists  to  drink — 

I  drag  you,  I  am  drowned  in  you,  you 

overwhelm  me !     Drink  ! 

Save  me !    The  shad  bush  is  in  the  edge 

of  the  clearing.     The  yards  in  a  fury 

of  lilac  blossoms  are  driving  me  mad  with  terror. 

Drink  and  lie  forgetting  the  world. 

And  coldly  the  birch  leaves  are  opening  one  by  one. 
Coldly  I  observe  them  and  wait  for  the  end. 
And  it  ends. 


[76] 


THE  LONELY  STREET 

School  is  over.     It  is  too  hot 

to  walk  at  ease.    At  ease 

in  light  frocks  they  walk  the  streets 

to  while  the  time  away. 

They  have  grown  tall.    They  hold 

pink  flames  in  their  right  hands. 

In  white  from  head  to  foot, 

with  sidelong,  idle  look — 

in  yellow,  floating  stuff, 

black  sash  and  stockings — 

touching  their  avid  mouths 

with  pink  sugar  on  a  stick — 

like  a  carnation  each  holds  in  her  hand — 

they  mount  the  lonely  street. 


[77] 


THE  GREAT  FIGURE 

Among  the  rain 

and  lights 

I  saw  the  figure  5 

in  gold 

on  a  red 

fi  ret  ruck 

moving 

with  weight  and  urgency 

tense 

unheeded 

to  gong  clangs 

siren  howls 

and  wheels  rumbling 

through  the  dark  city. 


[78] 


This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last 
date  stamped  below. 


UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA  LIBRARY 

Los  Angeles 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below. 


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